out of the woods
by affability
Summary: Haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds? Jack/Elsa.


a/n: This was very much inspired by Taylor Swift's new album, _1989_, which inspired both the title and description, as well as some of the lines in Italics, which are all snippets of different songs from that album. Say what you want about it, I absolutely adore it, which is strange because I haven't taken a strong liking to any of her previous work. But this new album is utterly fantastic; it is also excellent mood music, so you could listen to it whilst reading this. (Also, I doubt I'm going to write anything next year since it will be an extremely hectic year for me, but we will see). Please review and tell me what you've think—I haven't written in a while. Plus, I'm pretty excited because I've liked the idea of these two being together for a while and I'm glad I finally got a chance to write for them. Enjoy!

.

_Didn't they tell us don't rush into things?_

.

He thinks she's beautiful the first time he sees her, at first glance.

She's got that long platinum blonde, sunshine-coiled ringlets; the kind where every thread is entangled into a braid except for a few tendrils that encircle her porcelain face and bounce beside her brilliant blue eyes. Whenever she meets his glacial gaze, she smirks. He doesn't listen in on what she has to say, rather stares at the way the azure veins within her skin protrude ever so slightly, just as his own pair of blue veins. But when he realizes that she's talking to him, he stares at her with one overwhelming, all-consuming thought.

_She can see him_.

He's still getting used to the idea of people being able to see him, since he's been pretty much invisible for the past three hundred years, but she's never had that, never had to deal with that sense of loneliness and abandonment. Everyone sees her, at first glance, within picture frames, on monuments—everybody has always seen her.

But there's a difference between the both of them. People don't just see her, people adore her; she is a queen (literally, she's the actual Queen of Arendelle, in the flesh), whereas he's just skating amidst the blue, almost like her little secret.

"You're different," she states aberrantly.

"Oh yeah?" he questions. He crafts a snowflake into the air and she follows. She raises an eyebrow, the curvature of her mouth increasing; she looks so breathtaking that he begins to wonder what on earth she's doing wasting her valuable time with him. She could be overruling an important procedure for Arendelle right now, or something along those lines, so why is she here with him?

But, somehow, he likes to think that no one else has seen her like this, sprawled next to a giant oak tree, her tired eyes lingering, a lazy half-grin stealing her mouth, ultimately leaving him with a mental image.

"Yeah," she states, smilingly. "But you're the good kind." She pauses for a moment. "It's almost like I've met you before." He draws closer to her. 

.

.

"Why do we have this ability?" she asks him one day, her voice gentle, effortlessly crafting ice sculptures from her arctic fingertips.

"Curious, aren't we?" he remarks, lying lazily against the oak tree. He meets her gaze. "Maybe we're just lucky."

She scoffs, by way of reply.

.

.

He finds out that in between the span of her being crowned the Queen of Arendelle and fleeing from her homeland, she's somehow managed to, get this; build another castle of her very own entirely out of ice. Damn it, he can't even build a cottage, and she builds an _ice castle_?

It's strikingly huge, crystallized and, evidently, there's a gargantuan spiral staircase leading up to it, every single thing about it is Elsa-esque. Every inch of it is all entirely made out of pristine, fine cut, unadulterated ice. He stares at it, mouth agape; eyes brimmed with shock as he flies to the very top. Damn it, is there anything she _can't_ do? He slowly trails down the hallway, placing his finger on the crystal globes and iced furniture; she follows him, strangely silent throughout the entire walk. He feels a surge of insignificance envelop him as he explores the castle, until he eventually faces her.

"How the hell did you do this?" he asks, and she looks at him, almost sheepishly.

"Would you believe me if I told you that it just happened?" she asks. He raises an eyebrow.

"Does anyone know?" he asks, after a short pause. He turns to face her—she's strangely quiet, almost as if she's contemplating something. Eventually, she faces him.

"A few people," she states, a little hesitantly. "I got into a bit of trouble a while back."

_This_ intrigues him. "What kind of trouble?"

Turning to face him, she scoffs, "the kind you haven't seen." She stares at him, all doe-eyed, and that's when he realizes that there's still so much he doesn't know about her. He's at a loss for words, so naturally, he leans forward andkisses her. It's probably the only time she's not being her mystifying self and he likes it.

He thinks that he'll just settle for moments like this_—_moments when she's no longer on guard for the rest of the world; when her long hair is no longer braided and well within his fingertips and she blows a breath into the crisp, mountain air.

.

.

She's nothing like anything he's ever felt or seen before, this he concludes on yet another wintery morning, when he holds her hand for the first time.

He's not sure if that's a good thing.

.

.

"Your Majesty," he says, lightheartedly, when they're both tired and lying down, her indolent smile illuminating the room.

"Do you have a request?" she humors him, leaning against him, ice against ice (_he could get used to this_). She's an ice queen all right—a devious blend of chilled sarcasm and smirks, he got that the moment he first spoke to her.

He smirks. "Oh, I'm not asking."

She smiles and kisses him, by way of reply.

.

.

"For the longest time, I've always wondered," she says, loosely linking their fingers, "how this happened."

He looks at her, directly into her chilled eyes, and begins to wonder how he managed to find someone who crystallizes thoughts and splashes ice, just like he does. Blue, blue and blue—that's all he sees, it invades his vision and the unfamiliarity of belonging and cohesiveness envelops him amidst it all.

"Been there," he responds. She shakes her head vehemently, a curtain of blonde hair landing against her cheek. "But you _know_," she says. "Because you're, well, a Guardian, but I'm not. I wasn't chosen or anything, it just happened. And that night with Anna – it just showed me that I don't know what I'm doing, that I never understood why I have this, this—"

"Power," he interjects.

"—_thing_," she finishes, albeit bitterly. He smiles. Her eyes graze over his tall figure and she folds her arms, juts her lips forward, almost as if she's pouting. "Plus, you can fly."

He laughs. And then he holds out his hand.

.

.

He can feel her trembling as she grips his shoulders, her skin ice-cold against his (_the familiarity calms him_), it reassures him.

She's always been at the brink of equanimity; it's nice to know she's not entirely unshakable. "Having fun, Your Majesty?" he shouts, but slows down slightly once he feels her tensing up as they whisk throughout the clouds. When he picks up his speed, every ounce of her enthusiasm is diminished and she, uncharacteristically, screams.

"I take it back," she yells, her words slightly muffled as they get caught up in the wind. "I'm glad I'm gravitationally challenged. I miss the ground!"

His smirk spurs into a smile and he leans backwards, waving his staff around the frosty air whilst laughing. He doesn't tell her that the sky reminds him of the whirlwind of her irises, the captivating swirl of cerulean. He doesn't comment on the way they shine gleefully whenever she laughs, instead he whisks through the atmosphere faster and smiles widely.

"You were curious," he replies nonchalantly, swerving higher into the air. "Haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds?"

He does, eventually, bring her back to the ground, and when she lands, the relief on her face is almost comical. She trembles slightly when her feet touch the ground, but then she smiles triumphantly and when he smirks at her, she turns and raises an eyebrow, a half-smirk enveloping her own mouth.

"Thank you," she says.

.

.

He feels different when she's around.

Maybe it's because he's been alone for three hundred years, or maybe it's because he's never found anyone like him, but for some reason, whenever he around her, he feels life splurge within his veins and finds that his world of black and white blurs into screaming color. She resonates his thoughts, mirrors his actions with her words—she's just like him, except she has the essence of purity, a dash of innocence, despite being equally devious and sarcastic, he feels as if she's better off.

"I kind of like it here," she states, digging her hand in the snow. "I never really belonged anywhere."

Well, misery has always loved company

.

.

He flickers his staff and lets it snow on the day she decides to leave, allowing the rest of Arendelle to finish the rest of the puzzle.

"I'm going back now," she tells him, still linking their fingers together. He wonders if this will be the last time he feels the decipherable wintriness of her skin against his and evidently decides that he's going to miss it. Seasons come and go, and he never really expected her to stay—she's royal, and he never did understand why she came here, but he never asked her why, because, well, he didn't want to know the answer. He holds her hand.

"Will you come back here?" he asks. Damn it, she's left him with a scar and a blue flame and, from the look in her eyes, she knows it.

"We'll see what happens," she lingers. "Like you said, I'm curious." He feels his heart plummet whilst watching her bridge the water with ice before she flees back to her monarchy. He watches her retreating figure.

.

.

He still thinks she's beautiful, at last glance.

.


End file.
